


Toothbrushes

by Tarvok



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Steve Rogers Has PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 04:16:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4507425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarvok/pseuds/Tarvok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky needs Steve's help, and Steve will, of course, give it to him using whatever resources are at his disposal. Takes place after Winter Soldier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this months ago and never posted it or finished it.

Toothbrushes

By Tarvok

  
  


I know something isn't right the moment I set foot in my new apartment. The one thing I'll never forget about it is that old, musty smell from the previous tenants. No sooner than I had taken my slightly bent key out of the lock and opened the door, do I notice a distinct lack of the smell I'd become used to. Instead, I smell fresh rain.

And I hadn't left the window open.

I swore if it was Nick again, he'd better really be dying this time!

I sit my bag of groceries and sodden umbrella next to the now closed door, and swiftly make my way toward the main living area. I remember my shield is in the bedroom, so I just have to make do.

The apartment is still as dark as I left it, so it was hard to see with shadows everywhere. I edge around my sole La-Z-Boy recliner and flip the switch, filling the room with light as a muffled hiss from the far corner reaches my ears.

"Bucky?" I whisper. He's soaking wet, huddled into himself underneath the open window. The latch Is broken, and rain is trickling in right onto his head.

When he doesn't respond, I fiddle with the dimmer switch that I can never get right, until it's dark enough. "Bucky?" I ask again. "It's me, Steve." I slowly make my way to the sofa and pick up the plush throw Sam got me for an early Winter. I approach Bucky and kneel next to him on the floor.

"Hey, buddy. You okay? You look cold." I keep whispering random things as I reach out and help him out of his soaked hooded shirt. I have a bit of trouble getting it away from his metal arm. Some of the fabric Is caught up in the pieces and gaps. He's shivering, so I leave the t-shirt he had on already and just wrap him up in the throw. "There. You'll warm up soon." I go across the room and crank the thermostat.

When I turn around, Bucky is looking at me, wide-eyed. I just stare back. I'd been looking for him for months now, with no sign of where he was, what he'd been doing, or if he was even still alive. And he'd found me, instead.

I shake my head and go over and sit by him.

"So, Buck. Come here often?"

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

I'll never stop wishing caffeine actually did something for me. Especially ever since I'd found all those new fancy coffees.

It is just after eight in the morning on a Tuesday, the day after I got back from the obligatory food shopping and found Bucky huddled, and wet, in my apartment. I am enjoying a cappuccino from one of those convenient mixes I bought the day before, while Bucky Is still sound asleep in my bed. Last night, I'd mostly just jacked my jaws until he fell asleep and I carried him to bed. His hair was still damp when I'd woken up a bit ago.

I'm not sure what all the water's done to his arm by now.

I took some time to check on some new texts I'd gotten from Sam last night, then I set to making a sandwich for breakfast. I am half-way through it when I notice Bucky watching me from the bedroom doorway, in nothing. At all.

"Um. Right. You'll be needing dry clothes. Right." I drop the sandwich and head to the laundry room. I've got some clean things I had yet to put away, stuffed in a basket somewhere. I hand him a pair of navy pants and a brown t-shirt, and quickly turn away as he puts them on.

"So. Hungry?" I ask. He shakes his head, "No."

Well, I decide to go back to my sandwich. He follows and sits across from me. I can see his metal arm from this close, and it looks pretty bad. There's more than just cloth pieces stuck In it. It's dirty, and clearly wet, if the water spots spreading along the shirt are an indication. He catches me looking and flexes the arm. There's a loud whirring sound, then a soft popping sound. I don't get technology much, but I doubt a sound like that should be accompanied by what looked like an involuntary twitch in his metal hand.

I motion for him to stay still, then go to the bathroom to get a towel, some tweezers, and... after looking a bit, my toothbrush. I figure I can sanitize it if need be, later. I don't have dish sponges. I forgot to get those yesterday. You'd think I'd remember! It was raining.

Once I get back to the kitchen table, I scoot my chair to Bucky's left, and put everything down on the table. I look at him, and he looks at me. I shrug and roll up his sleeve to get a better look. I notice a small stick lodged in the back of his arm. I get it with the tweezers. I towel dry everything as I go, picking out tiny stones and leaves all along. Bucky quietly watches me, all the while. He shifts his arm as I need to get into places, and even separates the panels with his other hand so I can pat it all dry. I see mud caked along his hand, so I use my toothbrush to get at it.

During the Depression, it was hard to get toothbrushes, so sometimes we'd share. Bucky and me. I guess we're sharing now, too.

The whole process takes the rest of the morning. My phone buzzes a few times, probably Sam asking why I didn't go running. I'll text him later. The towel's gross, and my toothbrush is not fixable. Half the bristles are gone, and there's red paint chips stuck in what's left. A good portion of the red star on Buck's arm is gone now. He didn't react when I started to scrub at it, desperately, other than to help me add pressure.

It's suddenly hard to breathe. Everything's a bit blurry when I hear the chair creak and feel the warmth of his flesh hand on my face. I'm crying. He's the one who's been tortured and brutalized, and I'm the one crying. I scrub at my face and attempt to laugh. "I'm doing it for you, yeah? So you don't have to."

He looks lost, confused. He's biting his lip. The last time I saw him do that, we were kids and I'd fallen and broken my leg with nobody around to call for help. His hair is matted and greasy as it slides along my fingers. I move in and wrap him up in me. Like he used to when I was the small one. I hear my shirt tear under his left hand as he fists the fabric. "It's okay, Bucky." There's the whirring noise again, and the pop, then his left hand falls away. I catch the metal hand in my own, and let him burrow closer. "I'll fix it, Bucky. I promise."

  
  



End file.
